Chapter Text
Like everything else that is considered a reason for one’s behaviour, it all boiled down to Aegon’s childhood. Broody as he was as a child, it worsened throughout adolescence and some say his frown is his version of smiling. One of the first reasons for Aegon being as he is comes in a form of his aunt, unfortunately the only link to his father, a reckless man who died with by his actions.
As far as he could remember, Aegon could almost recite the words the silver haired woman would recite to him each time he asks a tentative question of his parents; of an answer that could quell his constant hunger for a family much more loving than her. Perhaps his mother is kind and could’ve tucked him in bed or his father would play catch with him and not him just throwing a baseball against the wall. He had a hundred of images that sweeten his dreams.
But Aunt Daenerys would sneer at the mention of his mother, of Lyanna. Aegon had to learn her name by sneaking around her polished office, skimming through yellow coloured pictures in dust covered photo albums, all of them had his parents but cut out. Most likely, she omitted them herself. But on one folded edge of a family photo so long ago, there was a scribble, cursive and elegant. Rhaegar and Lyanna; the runaway royals in love.
Later that night, at a tender age of eight, Aegon posed the inquiry in dinner.
Her startling violet eyes could’ve cut his skin at the intensity of her glare. “Aegon, you are my blood and that is why I permit you to live and dine with me. You’re the last of our family and I intend for you to inherit the company I so rightfully took back with fire and blood.” She likes to exaggerate, tweak a few things to her dramatic liking. That is our mantra, sweet boy; Fire and Blood.
She would whisper to him, a reminder of their supposed flawless and excellence. There used to be a large squared book with onion skin pages that greatly detailed the heirs, marriages, and names of the Targaryens before them. Back when kings and queens were worth dying for and a crown sits on the head of the person who has slain all their enemies.
Most of their reigns had been built upon incest, it is far too known as Aegon roamed the centuries back until their names were hard to pronounce. The madness is evident in the accounts of their behaviour and at times, he sees the past lunacy echo in the anger of his aunt. Whenever he gets mad, a flash of worry drowns the flames and he wonders if the ancestors live in him this way, fanning the flames that are passed down through blood, through their own siblings as spouses.
“So I shall not tolerate such disrespect under my roof. Breathing life into dead peoples’ names are naught things to do, child. Your parents died because of their foolishness. Love some would call it. I’d say it was convenient so I can properly manage the company they don’t seem to care about. ” She stood up, her silver hair almost liquid by the wane evening light. She cupped his cheek and smiled a smile that had no warmth. “Don’t think of them anymore because you are mine, my blood flows through yours, you understand?”
Too frightened by the outrage he caused; he frantically nods. “Ye-yes, Aunt.” He whispered, fragile and anxiety floods in his nerves.
The next school year, she ships him off to a co-ed boarding school so far in the north he wouldn’t be surprised if there were penguins waddling outside his window.
The Principal of the school saw Aegon’s name and his jaw clenched so hard it almost snapped. “I cannot and will not on my good conscience admit a Targaryen into this institution.” He bit out, strong and stern.
Aegon couldn’t tolerate this because for the first time in his life, he has a connection with his mother, a woman who could’ve sang songs into his ears as he slept and kissed his forehead. He couldn’t understand why almost everyone in Westeros hated them. Aunt used to say they hated them for the gods have blessed their family more than ordinary men.
“Wh-what if I went as someone else? Please, I’ll do anything.” Aegon squeaked in a high tone that intrigued the frowning man.
His aunt must’ve sensed the desperation for she sighed and her fingernails cut deeper in her leather clutch. “I shall pay extra if need be. Make sure only the three of us know of this.” She whispered in subtle annoyance, loathing how she must deign her nephew to this place, a place so befitting his deceased mother.
The broad shouldered man nodded. “Jon Snow will be your name, son. Remember it, wear it as an armour of protection.” He warned.
When his aunt left to stay in their hotel, she left a car service so Aegon can be brought to her after the school tour. The moment the heel clicks of his aunt’s shoes have recced, the principal staggered out of his seat to embrace Aegon with warmth he didn’t know the North has.
“Thank the gods. They lead you to us, Jon, your family.” He said into the boy’s shoulder and his sinewy arms held him tighter. “I often worry about your safety, son.” He said the last word in a manner he never heard before, wrapped in genuine veneration Aegon almost didn’t know it. He pulled back and ruffled the young boy’s hair. “You even look like us. I’m happy you don’t have the resemblance of the likes of your aunt.”
After that awkward hug, Mr. Stark explained everything, of how Lyanna was from his childhood, a lovely woman snatched up in the storms of her fantasy and she’s beguiled by a man with silver hair and tongue. They died together in a car crash that shouldn’t ever happen if only they were found earlier. But only he survived, the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.
Jon sat back, dazed and shocked. He stared at the teary eyed man, and when he spoke, it was only a cry of mixed emotions. And for the first time in his life, Aegon knew warmth that didn’t scorch him, not in the way his Aunt almost resembles a dragon; their family’s ancient crest splayed about their mansion.
Life in Wintefell was hard but the people were harder to manage.
His board mates are crueller than the northern winds. Furs, coats, and jackets were nothing in the night, almost as though the breeze were invisible knives, cutting through each layer of fabric and sink deep into a boy’s bones. The scars he bore could not be seen by any eye, but rather the sharp teeth of apathetic and judgemental men have taken a bite of his heart. Each of them has ripped a portion until he felt as though the notion of a feeling heart is a whimsical fantasy.
But he endured the hell, he climbed high to the top of the intellectual ranks out of his grade. Though his teachers scorned him, have judged how well managed he is because of how he’s different yet his looks would he had friends to live through the torment.
Aegon even made friends along the years. When he returns to the sweltering heat of King’s Landing, he would happily chat to his only relative of the friends he made, of the fun they managed to have in those grey times.
I think I belong there. He wanted to say, wanted to explain how the icy winds were almost welcoming now and he joins Robb and Bran in praying to their heart tree. He even had their prayers memorized. Gone were the histories and thick prayers of the Seven, another connection to his aunt and father.
“Here.” Robb said, handing Aegon a thin branch, with red leaves on its sides, tiny enough to fit his backpack. “So you can pray to the gods when you’re in the South.”
“Don’t scratch your arse with that, Snow. The gods would be doing that for you.” Theon jested, retreating his seat as Aegon chased him around the classroom and Robb laughing at the scene.
Aegon recalls the day they all first met, like an amusing memory that makes him laugh at the most random of times.
“Robb, did you pack your entire bloody closet in your luggage? By the gods, they’re so heavy.”
“You should exercise more, Theon.”
That’s how Robb found him, as he dragged his suitcases in their room. Theon was beside him, panting as he held one of the larger suitcases. “Robb, didn’t know you had a statue of a gaping boy as your roommate. Damn and I got a Frey.”
Jon blinked, his face heating up as the other boys assessed him. They were wildly different outwardly. One had curls of lush brown, like curls of a tree's trunk but his eyes are as blue as ice, as the north. Meanwhile his friend was taller, leaner and had a shaggy shaggy cinnamon locks, and his face was sly, his mouth curled into a subtle grin. “Th-the snow, I never seen such a sight before.” He stammers out, shyness stuck in him even here in this foreign land.
“What’s a Southron boy doing in these parts?” Robb wondered.
My mother used to study here. I begged my aunt to let me study here. He shrugged.
“Ah, mysterious boy who loves snow.” The brunette wags his finger in the air with an outrageous imitation of how people talk in King’s Landing. “Would you tell us your name, though?”
“My name’s Jon Snow.” The name felt odd, thinking that its meant to be him. But somehow, it felt far better than the name his father insisted him on having. Maybe Mr. Stark knows the true wishes of my mother. She might’ve named me Jon.
“Welcome aboard, Jon Snow.” Robb said, thrusting his hand out for a handshake.
Aegon obliged with a timid smile.
Days tumbled into months and Aegon felt settled here, far comfier than he did in the South, a distant memory he rarely remembers in the midst of hardship and friends. He has grown fond of his friends, companions that are far more valuable than all the gold his aunt could dream of.
At times, he toys with the idea of revealing himself to them, of being true to his truer friends. But, there has been bad blood between the two nations he has grown used to. Wars, deaths, betrayals and all sort of treachery that carves the deepest wounds, boiled blood in the most heated ways, that the rivalry, the hatred is so obvious and innate as breathing. Aegon resigns his plan to ever tell them because at least with them, he feels normal, he feels loved.
At weekends when the students are given pass to visit their homes, Aegon and Theon join Robb and his siblings to their house.
“My home’s too far from here plus a dead beat dad to deal with. I’d sooner let Ol’ Nan adopt me than let Father nit-pick on me again.” Theon elaborated on his reluctance in going back home.
“Home is a philosophical notion, yes? It’s a feeling rather than some structure. That or maybe Mrs. Stark cooks better.” Jon teased, making the two boys laugh.
Robb patted him hard on the back. “Ah so the sullen boy jokes!” He said in delight and together.
There are many things that Aegon loved about the Starks’ mansion. One of them being so warm, Winterfell is in a perpetual chill and it is the gods’ gift for Robb’s house to be founded on steams so the walls were enough to shake off the chill. He shared a room with Robb and Theon, while Bran and Rickon were roommates and his sisters reside in one room as well.
He is thick as thieves with almost all the Stark siblings (Bran mentioned how Theon is their eccentric adopted dog. The Greyjoy wore the compliment with pride.) All except for one; Sansa Stark, the eldest daughter of their principal. He has heard countless of bawdy japes from Theon about Sansa being the Queen in the North and had to stop Robb from punching the joking boy too many times but he won’t verbalize his agreement on it. Because it is true, how founded it is for Sansa to be ethereal. He even had to look up that word so he can describe her beauty.
There is an innate elegance in the way she walks down the hall, chin in the air, had her posture perfect. Everything about her feels like perfection, as though the day she was created, the gods were far too generous and gave everything in seamless ratios. And it isn’t only because she’s so lovely to look upon but almost because of how she is.
Being a daughter of the school’s principal, she has to uphold her father’s integrity and honour. So, she joins debate clubs, student council, exceeds in the subjects of her year. She does this all with a humble air and modesty that could make the Mother jealous.
Aegon first labelled it as admiration. But the smiling kraken snorted so hard Bran stared at them with his large hickory eyes. He could’ve known what they were conversing about but he didn’t give a clue even with Jon’s beet red face and Theon’s smug smirk. When the younger boy slid back into conversation with Arya, the brunette leaned into him.
“Snow, you ain’t fooling me. I know you like her.”
“Correction, dumbass, I admire her. She’s so pretty and flawless and-“
“-Wow, why don’t you just go marry her then and have perfect babies with her?” Theon taunted with his signature smile. It stretched to his ears when Jon’s face reddened and he looked away, pretending to enjoy the delectable thick soup they’re eating. “Oh, my Jonny’s in love!”
Aegon stomped down on Theon’s foot before Robb, the protective brother of the target of his amazement, could hear them. He is quite aware that when Robb would hear this, he’d no doubt leap from his seat and pommel his friend to a bloody pulp. The Starks value family over everything else it appears and Aegon didn’t want to test it with this fanciful feelings.
Later at night, when the boys are snoring soundly on their beds, Aegon moves to the window so the silvery light of the moon washes over the pages of his journal. A book that collects his thoughts, none of which he voiced out to even his dearest friends.
Dear Journal,
Theon took the words right out of my tongue. To say in the least, Sansa Stark is the loveliest person to ever grace the Earth. And yes, I say this without even saying a word to her despite how I spend the weekends at their place for years now. She has such an obedient nature, eager to please her parents, especially her mother; a person who doesn’t necessarily like me or Theon staying at their place. But for the sake of her son, she endures us and not to taint her character but I’m pretty sure she warns Sansa to stay away from us but more importantly me.
Because one time when Arya and I were having a snow ball fight, the tiny little thing screeching her victory, I happen to look up and saw Sansa standing at the second floor balcony. She was staring at us, her face conveys wonder and there was a blush to her cheeks. Her eyes are so blue, like the water underneath the ice and I’d gladly down in them. But Mrs Stark emerged from nowhere, a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and led her away.
Maybe because she knows who I am, a dragon in their wolf’s den and she resents me for it. But if Sansa does deign herself to speak to me, what will I even say to her? My tongue would tie itself in a nervous wreck. Sometimes I see her in the hallway, always with her friends, laughing and my heart would stop functioning. I’d almost wave at her because she always smiles at Robb but never me. I’m not the envious type but I would do anything for Sansa Stark to smile at me.
I’d give her any star she likes and I’d catch comets for her smile.
Aegon nearly threw the notebook when he heard Theon snort, as though the brunette was looming behind him and read the naïve and enamoured feelings stirring in his chest. When his eyelids began to feel weighted, he hid this notebook far in his suitcase so they won’t find it. And he slept soundly.
And so the game went on, when he studies at Winterfell, he goes by the false name (but somehow it feels right, he would ponder over, late at night and even Robb’s snores couldn’t distract him from his thoughts). But when he’s with his aunt, she calls him Aegon and at times he doesn’t respond at that name, a namesake from some older relative of his, of whom he doesn’t recall and doesn’t bother to.
“Robb, Theon and I built a snowman the other day. We made it way taller than planned and it fell on Theon. He was half-buried in it!” Aegon exclaimed in amusement, laughing as he ate a spoonful of braised lamb. “Don’t worry, aunt, we got him off and made hot coco so we won’t freeze to death.” He says, sipping the water from his golden cup.
The blonde hums a polite tone, her eyes scanning thick documents and her legs primly crossed. It doesn’t matter to her if they were dining or in the living room, she always carried around paperwork. “Yes, that is wonderful you have friends. But they’re Starks, Greyjoys and other names that hold no sway in our realm.” She settled her fountain pen on its stand and cracked her knuckles. “I’ve entertain the wish of your dead mother quite enough. You shall attend the best school here in King’s Landing, not some silly igloo with northerners.” She laughs a little at her jape.
Her smile and laugh sound so cruel. He fleetingly thought. Picking at the peas, he doesn’t say anything, does not dare to stroke the fire always simmer at her belly. Later that night, he opened his journal and wrote down his frustrations, until he felt his fingers numb from the effort.
Dear Journal,
I don’t wish ill on my aunt, a woman so beautiful she has suitors from different regions of Westeros, even farther from here. But how can she dismiss my love of the North so quickly, so without thought? I love their icy lands, how I have lost count in having snow ball fights with my friends, using a sled to glide down hills and our laughter curls into misty airs. I’m much form the North as any of my friends, there’s ice in my veins and it doesn’t melt in the heat of King’s Landing, even of my fierce aunt. Nothing can thaw the winter in me.
I’m almost seventeen now, surely that makes me a man? Mr. Stark tells me stories of mother, of how strong and beautiful she is in equal measure. And though I won't have the chance in meeting her in this lifetime, I love her so much, miss her too much to write it down. Funny how I go back and forth in these opposing nations yet, I feel like I don’t belong in either of them. There’s always been this strange barrier between me and the Targaryen claim my aunt so proudly crowns herself with and scorns me a little because I share her throne. And though I love Winterfell, most of its citizens have treated me coolly and whispers taunts behind me.
I’m lost. But I fear I’ll be worse off without the Starks, a loving family and I can almost fit in with them. And Sansa, oh gods how I will miss looking for her in the crowded cafeteria, to feel the want to talk to her almost overload my senses that I’ll almost do that impulsive thing. I’ll miss her, perhaps more than I’ll miss her brother.
The next day, his aunt announces he is to transfer in some posh school somewhere in the capital. He sits rigid, hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “I don’t want to study here. I want to go back-“ He bites his tongue as home nearly slides down his tongue. No, he wouldn’t dare anger her now.
“Darling child, you should be educated in the ways of life of where you truly belong. Your place is here with me, with where your father would’ve wanted you to be.” Daenerys responded in ease, her pen tracing the words down the document.
My father got them both killed. He was stupid and she was in love, a deadly pair.
His aunt glanced him in the corner of her eye. She dropped her pen and closed the leather book. “I used to be like you, you know. I grew up in places so far away, the people and languages were eccentric but I didn’t let the strangeness get to me.” She stood up and she sat down on the empty plush chair next to him. She gathered his large hands with her small ones. “This is your home, okay? Your journey in Winterfell is an indulgence that I allowed because you would’ve rebelled against me. Every road you’ll take will lead you here, to me and to this kingdom of ours. We are family, sweet nephew and you best remember this."
There was a tear somewhere in his chest at the reminder of harsh reality. All his life, despite how enjoyable Winterfell is, his aunt doesn’t fail to remind him of his duty to her, to their family name. He has to stay here with her.
The Starks only take you in because you’re a charity case to them. They’re doing what is expected of a known family in their town. A hard voice, almost resembled the woman beside him, barrelled into his mind. Fear gripped his throat, taking all his potential responses out of him and he nodded in defeat.
“How about this, you and I will go to Dragonstone this summer? I think we both need a break from work and school.” His aunt suggested, combing her small hand through his mess of inky curls.
No, gods no, I’ll be stuck with you for the entire summer.
But Aegon found himself agreeing to her proposal.
She smiles and her face softens with her action. “But first, you shall send a letter to Robb Stark, saying that you’re transferring in the next semester. Make a duplicate for the headmaster.” She requests, but it wasn’t one that he could outwardly deny.
Aegon caught the threats between the spaces of her words. I have come so far in life, my nephew, I won’t let you hinder the power of our dynasty that I, myself have continued. Fire and Blood.
Right after dinner, he dragged himself to his bedroom. He sat himself in front of his old study desk, polished wood and made from oak. He laid a stack of blank papers in front of him, his pen in hand but no words formulated in his mind. He tried to string together a formal yet feeling type of letter but how?
“I-I don’t want to be away from you all.” Aegon mourned, angst dipping his tongue down and he can’t seem to talk anymore. Rolling the black pen among his fingers, his mind remains vacant of excuses, of writing down reasons for their eventual separation.
Robb flash in his mind, his sky blue eyes would be the hushed topic of girls in restrooms. Bran ever so curious, insightful, and so full of life its contagious. Arya is a spirited girl, with more energy than she knows what to do with. Unexpectedly, he warms up to their headmaster, Mr Stark with his blood merged so thoroughly with honour. He taught Aegon on how to be a man, how everyone has a code of duty and must uphold it for it is sacred and unholy to betray these unspoken vows.
And Sansa, Sansa the girl that Aegon would almost do anything for just so they can exchange a few words, rather than him staring at her. His heart may be young but there's a stubborn belief deep in his bones that if he gathers his scattered courage and ask her out, they could be something truly. But what, he can't (or won't ever) find answers to.
In the end, Aegon slept on his study desk, the papers remained empty but his eyes filled with tears and it pooled and ruined his would be letters. His sleep was shapeless for the people in them were strangers, claiming him for his name, for he has the blood of past kings, for how he is both South and North. Yet all he wants is home, a family, and love.
A creak of his bedroom door didn’t rouse the adolescent. A lithe form of a woman entered his room. She bent over and inspected the stained papers with a small smile. “Just as I suspected.” She mumbled, carding her hand through his curls and pressed a kiss on the back of his head. She throws the tear stained papers into a trash bin and puts a pillow under his arm so at least his forehead won’t have a painful red spot.
The next morning as her nephew sleeps, Daenerys writes the letter, informing Mr Stark of Aegon’s transfer, of requesting his needed requirements and documentation so the transition will be smooth.
She breaks the Stark family’s heart in pieces before lunch.